


Epiphany

by mydwynter



Series: Memoranda of Understanding [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Affection, Alcohol, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Banter, Christmas, Companionable Snark, Desire, Emotions, Holidays, Intimacy, Love, M/M, One Shot, Original Character(s), Romance, Snark, ghost story, holiday ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13034901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: The snow was falling again, heavier and larger now, and up in the trees the ravens complained to each other about the state of it. Greg rifled in his coat for his emergency stash, then shook out a cigarette and his lighter."One more, please," said Mycroft.Greg peered at him. "Really?""It's been a disconcerting day."As far as Greg was concerned, the only Dickensian thing likely was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come manifesting in the fireplace and ushering them all to hell.





	Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my betas—Macbean221b, BakerStMel, Mazarin221B, and BilliethePoet—who checked me on my flights of linguistic fancy, and made sure everything aligned. And a particular thanks to Macbean221b, who has been my patient and enthusiastic Scary Christmas cheerleader since this story was just a twinkle in its writer's eye.
> 
> And thanks to you all, for adoring this series so much that I couldn't help but add a little holiday coda. Your enthusiasm has kept the lights on in the universe for years, long after it was completed, and it's brought me so much joy that I have to raise a glass of wassail to you in thanks. Sláinte.

"Jesus fuck." Greg leaned over the steering wheel to peer through the falling white.

"Do you want me to take over?"

"I've got it."

"You sure?"

"Had a lot of pursuit training, have you?"

"As it happens..."

If the drive had been slightly less hazardous, Greg might have done his best impression of Mycroft's narrow-eyed judgement and speared him with it. Instead, he aimed it at the windshield. "Really."

"I'll tell you all about it another time."

"Yes you will."

"Would you like me to put on something loud?"

"How much longer do we have?"

"Two miles, and we're looking for a sign on the right."

" _Queen_ , please."

"Done."

The sign was tiny and tan, and they missed it twice before finally spotting the narrow drive and the towering hedges which surrounded it. With a bump and a heart-slopping slide, they turned off the road and found themselves in a green-walled tunnel with a heavy fall of white from an opaque sky. White above, white below, and a static of snowfall directly in front.

"Jesus fuck," Greg said again. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"

Mycroft tilted his head toward the "Welcome to Mulberry Manor" sign as they drove past.

The steady beat of wipers and Roger Taylor drummed them forward. They had just eased round a corner when the snowfall was interrupted by a cloudy figure emerging from the hedgerow and stopping in the middle of the road. Greg tapped the brakes. He had the disconcerting feeling of being scanned, of being _judged_ , but then the wind picked up, and the figure was gone. The snowfall was once again a steady curtain of white.

"What the fuck was that?" said Greg.

"I'm not sure."

"That was weird."

"Fluid dynamics are complex. I presume it was a gust of wind."

"It would have to be."

After a breath, and a churning moment where the tyres refused to bite, Greg got them moving again. Twenty stressful feet, thirty, and the drive curved right again and opened onto a wide vista of house and trees.

"Fucking christ," said Greg.

"Oh dear."

It was a gigantic tumbledown manor house, one of the generation struck by the estate taxes in the mid-20th century and never recovered. The place was a vague streak of black, as if someone had scraped charcoal against a rough canvas and left it at that. Skeletal trees broke up the space around the building, so the entire vision was one of white snowfall and black decay.

"Did Sharon book us lodgings with the Addams Family?"

"It cannot be that bad."

"She wouldn't do that to us, right?"

"You know her far better than I do."

"She wouldn't do that to us."

"The website made it look charming and warm."

"People can do anything with Photoshop."

"I admit I didn't investigate further."

"Me neither. Wish we had."

"As do I."

The drive swung in a wide arc in front of the house, and Greg was so focused on not ploughing into the threadbare rose bushes that he nearly didn't stop in time to avoid the tiny young woman in a gigantic red parka who had appeared in front of them.

"Jesus fuck," Greg said for the hundredth time.

He'd thought she was gathering snow on her shoulders, but as she stepped round to his window the snow turned out to be a fluffy fur collar. She motioned to them to roll down the window, her dark curls bobbing loose from her slicked-back chignon, and waited for him to comply before he spoke. She puffed bits of fur out of her mouth. 

"Reservation?" she said, in a voice which resonated unreasonably well though her small frame.

"Er, yeah. Lestrade?"

She nodded. "The Lestrades, good, we've expected you. I'm Magda. If you pull round to the side of the building you'll see parking, and Tillie and I will help bring your bags in."

_The Lestrades._ Goddammit, Sharon.

Distracted, he waved her off. "We've got it. Go in through here?"

"Please. I'll see you inside." She shivered and disappeared.

Greg eased round the side of the house and hoped the unploughed expanse next to a few snowed-under cars was what she'd been referring to, because there was no way in hell he had the patience to drive much further. They parked and grabbed their bags, and carefully picked their way through ankle-deep snow toward the house.

The sky was a flat, pale white, and the crunch of their shoes was loud in the mid-morning silence and earthbound muffle of the waning storm. Up in the trees, a chorus of ravens complained about the cold, and off in the distance a sheep groaned. Two flapping points of black spiralled lazily over a copse of apple trees next to a desolate kitchen garden.

The house was just as colourless close up, and from there he could see the dead leaves caught in the cage of fondant-laden rosebushes, and the gigantic frosted spiderweb stretching from the eaves to the corner and down to the bushes. He didn't think they were leftover Halloween decorations. Addams Family indeed. But the light glowing through the grime on the bay windows was golden, and the steam at the edges presaged warmth, so Greg contented himself with thoughts of hot drink and a roaring fire and made his way inside.

* * *

In the sitting room, Greg and Mycroft nodded hello to a pair of grey-haired women in armchairs bookending the fireplace. A primly-aproned woman with brown curls piled on her head appeared from nowhere to shake their hands.

"I'm Mrs Gaspard, your hostess. We're so pleased to have you. If there's anything I can do for you, all weekend, at any time, please don't hesitate to ask. Your room is down the corridor to the left, then a right, first door on the right. Mind the step up to go in. Your en-suite is the door just before your room; you'll have to share with the Spensers, who have the opposite room to the left."

"Very en-suite, then," Greg muttered to Mycroft.

"Dinner is at 7, with games and dessert afterward."

Mycroft's eyes took on a stressed mien. "Games."

"Oh yes, all our guests play games. It's part of the experience. Didn't you know?"

"We— My daughter booked for us. I didn't know about—"

"Oh, yes. Games tonight, a woods walk tomorrow, and a ghost tour tomorrow evening."

"Ghost tour." Greg's heart sank. He could feel the chill rolling off Mycroft, as if he were fading away from the land of the living himself.

"Oh, everyone does it!" she said blithely. "Not too scary, you understand, don't want to upset anyone with a heart condition. But yes, this house was built in 1843, so it's bound to have a terrible, wonderful history beyond the one you know. But—" she lay a finger on the side of her nose, like a cross between Dr Who and Santa Claus, "—no spoilers now, that'd be telling."

"Right." Greg looked at their bags, the raven-themed fire irons, and Mycroft's mahogany-still expression. "Well, I suppose since we're here now, we should go get settled."

"Oh do, do. And if the snow clears enough for it, maybe we can picnic near the pond. You are still planning on staying until Sunday, yes?"

Greg took in a gigantic portrait of a woman dressed in grey, bedecked with ravens on both shoulders and several swirling round her head. "We'll see."

* * *

The room they'd be saddled with for the night was dark, cold, and small. The bed was a monstrosity in rose and ruffle, and the olive damask wallpaper swallowed up what little light the bedside lamp could throw.

But what made the spectacle truly horrific were the Nutcracker-themed holiday decorations occupying every surface. Soft toys and ornaments, charms and figurines. And a large wooden nutcracker perched on a shelf, staring at him with beady black eyes. There was a whole chorus of ballerinas, too, snowflakes and sugar plums poised on their music boxes, frozen in mid-pirouette or forever in arabesque.

"Jesus fuck."

It looked as though someone had raided estate sales for every Nutcracker toy in the United Kingdom and gathered them in one already-cramped guest room as a joke. Greg wasn't sure the two of them would be able to fit in there with all the imposed jollity.

Mycroft took in every molecule of the room, empty-eyed. "This is certainly…tasteful."

"I'm so sorry. I don't know what she was thinking."

"I wonder if she meant to punish us for some imagined slight?"

"I suspect she thought she was doing us a favour."

"…I see."

"Probably had visions of spooking us into a desperate cuddle." Mycroft blinked at him, wordless. "You know. Teenagers in the 50s going to a horror film at the drive-in and holding hands at the scary parts. That cliché. You do know that cliché?"

"I am aware of it, yes."

On the window sill next to Greg, there was a tatty stuffed mouse wearing a toy soldier's uniform, carrying a plastic drum. It did not seem very scary.

“Did I show you the video she sent me?”

“Perhaps?”

“The one about Christmas? She made it with the laptop we gave her. You would have remembered.”

“I’m certain I would have.”

“No, I mean because it was about a murderous Nutcracker performance.”

“…I see.”

“You can see why I'm reminded of it.”

“Do I want to know how it ends?”

“Everybody dies.”

“So I'll be sleeping well, then.”

"We both will."

Greg took it all in, then closed the door between them and prying ears. "I really wish she hadn't told them we were married. I mean, I know she's a fan of us—" he gestured emphatically between them, in a way intended to convey just how much Sharon liked them as a couple, "—but I didn't think she'd go that far."

"Let me get this straight. You're more upset she lied that we're married than you are with a B&B which gives ghost tours."

"Well," Greg paused. "No, not upset. Just exasperated."

"I suppose that's understandable."

They both stared round some more, as the true horror of the situation settled upon them. Some of it got up Greg's nose, and he sneezed. "So. What do we do about the lie?"

"Nothing. Unless or until it becomes necessary, we do nothing at all. It makes no difference whatsoever."

"In the meantime, there are toys in our room."

"I dare say that's the larger imposition."

Greg took it all in, sighed, and hove into the breach. "Might as well make the best of it, then. If you put our toiletries in the bathroom, I'll stoke up the fire."

"Do you really think you can relax under these conditions?"

"We've both been in worse. How bad can it be?"

* * *

By the time they had unpacked and were back in the sitting room, a few more guests had appeared. Aside from Martha and Joan—the older women bookending the fireplace—there were now three more.

On the settee to Greg's left was Lydia, a young woman in a white gown with ruffles halfway up her long neck, a Victorian hair-do, and a lot of trailing skirts. She also had heavy eye makeup, bright red fingernails, and holes in her earlobes you could fit a pencil through.

Squished up next to her was Andy, her husband, who looked like the human embodiment of a golden retriever with one black eye and a football jersey. They touched without end, apparently for comfort, and Greg decided they could have been high-school sweethearts if the guy hadn't been a handful of years older than she.

And at a little breakfast nook next to the bay window was Hannah, who seemed utilitarian in all things and whose nose was reminiscent of the corvids decorating the house. She looked up from her papers just long enough to nod to them, then dove back into her work.

As they were introduced, Mycroft's pulled his shoulders down and square. When he lifted his head up, all sign of grumpiness was gone from his face. In its place was quiet charm and pastoral dignity.

"Mycroft Holmes. Enchanted." Which was laying it on a bit thick, but maybe he needed a bit of defence mechanism. He was having a trying day.

They both were.

Mrs Gaspard was at the table in the centre of the room, surrounded by the trappings of midmorning tea.

"It's a fresh pot," she said. "And you've had a snowy drive. Please take a moment and rest. Enjoy yourselves."

"What brings you to Mulberry Farm?" Martha said warily. She had red-rimmed reading glasses and a haircut like a drill sergeant, and she drank from a mug instead of a cup, sans saucer. She studied them over its rim.

"Oh, er." Greg looked at Mycroft. "We're on our way to visit my daughter."

"The two of you?"

"They're newlyweds," added Mrs Gaspard. Everyone else reacted somewhere on the scale from pleased to bored, but Greg's brain missed a beat again, like slipping on a snow-printed marble lobby floor when you're trying to look competent in front of a bank manager. _Newlyweds?_ He was going to throttle Sharon.

"I'm sorry," he started, "we're not—"

A blast of wind shook the house, rattled the front door, and whistled in the eaves. The tree immediately outside the sitting room knocked on the window as if demanding entry.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "We'll be a fortnight in Edinburgh, to spend time with her before she leaves. She's studying in America."

"Oh, that's nice," said Joan. In contrast to her companion, her reading glasses were purple, and she had on about twenty beaded necklaces which, impressively, she managed not to knit into whatever she was making.

The youngest of the women, the one who looked as though she were cosplaying a suffragette meringue with black eyeliner, blinked at them. "What is she studying?" she asked in a wry monotone. Greg couldn't tell if she was actually interested, or only asking to seem as if she gave a shit.

"She's a film student," said Greg.

"Mm. Cool." She got up and headed for the door.

"I…think so…anyway," he said to the trailing white lace of her dress as she left the room.

"She'll be back," said her husband. He grinned and waved away her rudeness. "She probably just wanted a biscuit."

Greg looked at the plate of them on the table. "I'm sure she did."

"And are you here for the weekend?" said Mycroft, still wearing his 'I am a pleasant human being' face.

"Martha and I have been here all week," said Joan.

Greg wasn't sure what to say to that. "I'm sure that's been fun."

They both smiled. "Always," said Martha, sincerely.

The clock on the mantel chimed eleven, while Joan knitted and Andy ate biscuits and stared. Greg sipped his tea and examined the wall of ships in front of him: paintings, etchings, daguerreotypes. There had to have been over a hundred.

"So what do you two do?" Mrs Gaspard asked him.

"I work in the government," said Mycroft, "but Greg is a police detective."

Andy's eyes shot wide. "Oh, no kidding? I always wanted to be a detective. A real detective. Are you a real one?"

Greg stifled a smile. "Yes, a real one."

"Have you ever seen a dead body?"

"Unfortunately."

"Did it smell?"

"Andrew," said Mrs Gaspard, in such a knowing and motherly tone that Greg immediately wondered what their relationship was.

He shrugged without regret. Greg expected him to say that he'd at least had to ask, but then Lydia came back into the room wearing black lace gloves, a hairnet, and no facial expression. She sat back in her place smashed right up against Andy and picked up her book.

"Greg is a police detective," Andy whispered sotto-voce to Lydia, and she smiled halfway, the curl twisting the left half of her mouth, but her eyes softened marginally, and Greg figured that was the best he was going to get.

The portrait over the mantel drew his eye again, and from his position in the armchair across from him it occurred to him that the candles and fresh flowers round it looked like an altar. "Is she a long-gone ancestor?" he asked, nodding over the rim of his cup at her.

All eyes swung to the painting. There was a moment of silence. "That's Lady Greyson," said Hannah, from the corner.

"And she…owned the house?"

"She's the lady."

"…Okay."

"The. Lady."

Greg blinked. "I'm afraid I don't understand. Did she build the house?"

The others looked at him with a sort of vague incomprehension. "You don't know about the lady?" said Joan.

Greg looked at Mycroft. He looked at Joan. He looked at the painting. He and Mycroft shook their heads. "Who's the lady?"

"The. Lady." Mrs Gaspard set her needlepoint aside. "In 1843, Lady Greyson and her fiancé the Captain built this house for their wedding. They spent almost an entire year having it constructed, overseeing every last detail, but on the evening of their wedding he fell through the ice in the pond and died. She refused to remarry, and refused to move, but instead stayed in this house every remaining night of her 82 years, mourning the life together they'd lost, taking in all manner of strays and orphans to replace the children she'd never bear. Since then, every anniversary of his death has been marked by strange occurrences, and it's been the mission of the Lady Grey Society to pay homage to her in the hope that some day, one anniversary, she might rest."

"Oh." Greg didn't know what to say. He didn't look at Mycroft for fear he'd crack up. Instead, he covered his face with his teacup to mask the levity in his eyes. "When's the anniversary?" He took a sip.

"Tonight."

He lost the sip all over the carpet.

* * *

“Wait a minute.” said Greg, as they slipped through the corridor toward their room. “So they’re all here for a haunting. Tonight.”

“A séance, it seems," said Mycroft, bafflingly unperturbed.

“I can't believe this.” Greg was going to have words with Sharon. Spooking the two of them into a cuddle was one thing, but a group séance was a step too far. "Have you heard of the grey lady?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Horror stories are your bailiwick."

"Yeah, but fictional ones."

"Do you know something I don't about the veracity of—"

"No, never mind, that was a stupid thing to say. I don't know." Greg pulled out his phone to google, but he had no service. "Hey, do you have bars here?"

"I haven't since we hit that curve in the road about half a mile—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Why didn't you say something?"

"I thought you knew."

"And hadn't bitched about it?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I thought you were quietly bowing to the inevitability of—"

"When have I ever bowed quietly to the inevitability of anything?"

"I now see my error."

Greg huffed a laugh, more annoyed than concerned. He'd gone thirty years of his life without mobile service. He could manage one night. And if anything went seriously wrong, certainly a house in a dead zone had a landline. They'd be fine. Except… "What if they arranged something embarrassing to congratulate us on our marriage?"

"Such as?"

"Use your imagination."

"I'd rather not, thank you."

They turned the last corner toward their bedroom and heard the sound of breaking glass and of avian wings flapping away. Greg ran the last few feet.

"Well, fuck."

The storm-tossed pear tree beside the house had apparently wanted some of their warmth, because it had punched through the lower pane of the window, dropping a shower of glass, snow, and a lone, withered pear.

"This is unfortunate," Mycroft said, an understatement sent over Greg's shoulder.

"Try to rescue whatever needs rescuing. I'll go get Mrs Gaspard." Greg jammed his hands in his pockets and went to find her. The room disturbed him, and a little exercise might help.

He found her in the dining room, arranging flowers. "We've got a bit of a situation," he said.

She tutted over the mess and insisted upon moving them upstairs to the master suite. "It's the least I could do, given the trouble. And your wedding," she said. "Consider it a gift."

"We're not—"

But she was gone.

"Let it go," said Mycroft.

"Mmmhmm." Greg skulked around the room to see if there was any more damage, or maybe even a magazine he could brush the snow onto, when he was washed by a flood of giddiness. The distant sound of fair carousels played at the very edges of his hearing, and stars glittered on the edge of his vision.

Mycroft was brushing tinkling piles of glass onto something or other in a steady _tink-tink-tink-tink-tink_.

Over on the bureau, Greg could have sworn he saw one of the soft toys move.

He peered at the pile, studying them, trying to figure out if they'd always been in that grouping, when he saw movement in the corner of his eye. One of the music boxes was spinning, silently. A Sugar Plum Fairy ballerina, toes ever pointing, was pirouetting in the centre of a round box, the fake-wooden floor under its feet dizzyingly still.

Greg opened his mouth to ask Mycroft if he saw it, when every ballerina in the place began spinning, all at once. Large and small, in any costume, every dancer turned silently but for the whirring and clicking of their mechanisms. The large wooden nutcracker was beating time with its jaws, a clack-clack-clack in the same rhythm as Mycroft's brush. It stared malevolently under bushy brows. Greg backed up until his calves hit the bed, but still the dancers spun.

And then they didn't. He froze, trying to see the entire room at the same time, but everything was still. No Nutcrackers, no music boxes, no movement except for Mycroft and the gentle wash of sheer curtains fluttering in the winter wind.

"Gregory?"

He blinked. Everything was fine. Silent. Still. Normal.

"Are you feeling unwell?"

Greg tried to shake it off: the hallucination, and the resultant worry. "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. "Just thinking about my mum."

"I promise you she's already moved on." She'd caught them necking in the car before going in for Christmas dinner, a last minute grasp at solidarity which was scuttled by her knocking on the window on the way back from visiting a neighbour. Embarrassment indulged his lie by creeping in a flush up the back of his neck. Fifty years old, and still mortified by his mum.

It would have been less of a big deal if she hadn't looked at him with such warm amusement all through the meal. Mockery would have been easier.

"You don't know my mum."

"At least yours didn't make threats."

"Oh, I don't mind _your_ mother." It was only words, and a steely blue gaze not unlike Sherlock's. "She means well. She just doesn't want me to hurt you."

"I can protect myself. I'm a grown man."

"I don't think she cares about the grown part."

"And she's known you for years."

"But not…in this capacity. She's protective of you. I like that about her."

"As long as you weren't insulted."

"Nah, I've had worse." Andrea had been worse. At least Mrs Holmes's threats didn't leave his shoulder sore for a week.

"I suppose I should be pleased you two got on so well."

"When the subject is your baby photos, there's a lot to bond over."

"Please stop reminding me." Mycroft finished brushing glass onto a magazine, gave him a quick kiss, and pulled away just before Mrs Gaspard hove into the room with clasped hands and a doe-eyed expression.

"If you'll follow me. I've opened up the room, and Tillie is lighting you a fire. It should soon be warm and cosy, the perfect thing for a stormy winter night. Shall we?"

Greg was more than happy to make his escape.

* * *

By the time they'd repacked their bags and hiked them up two flights to the master suite, the fire was at full strength and the room was warm and welcoming. Greg's spine loosened the moment he stepped through the door.

It was as much a contrast to their previous room as it could get. The windows were large and clear, offering an unobstructed view of the snowy valley to the west, and the decor was elegant and clean, fashionable in a gentle way.

The larger four-poster bed was done up in shades of silvery-grey, pale blue, and black, which matched a window treatment overflowing with rich satin and textured cotton, and the pale wood of the floor was muffled by thick Turkish rugs in blues and greys and whites. Greg doubted the furnishings were original, and the decorator had created something which walked a line between austere and comfortable, clean and classic.

And that didn't even begin to describe the beauty of the light. At noon, the light was magnificent.

Set into the high, arched ceiling was a glass cupola, a domed skylight which refracted the winter sunlight into a million shards of blue and gold. Between the cupola and the large windows the room was lit up like an aerie at the top of the world, and the effect was breathtaking. Greg halted on the threshold for a moment before he could find the words.

"This is beautiful. I'm surprised it wasn't booked already."

"It's not often booked," she said.

He was about to ask why not when he spied the gigantic portrait over the fireplace for the first time, and immediately suspected he knew the answer.

It was at least a yard across, maybe more, and even larger in height, which would have been a forbidding spectacle regardless. But the subjects of the painting made it even worse. A man and woman judged them in shades of black and white and grey, with only the blue of her eye and the olive tones of his cheek providing any indication that the painting wasn't meant to be black and white. It was framed in silver gilt, scrolling and speckled with black, and the entire thing seemed like a malevolent window to the wintery world outside. The piece was a wrong note in a clarifying song, a splinter in the serenity, and he didn't wonder for one instant why there were curtains to either side. 

"Now, lunch is at one o'clock in the main dining room, but feel free to rest for a while and get yourself settled."

"One thing," said Greg. "I'd like to make a phone call. Is there a land line I could use?"

She shook her head. "Knocked out with the storm, I'm afraid. If it's an emergency, you could walk down to the village?"

"No. That's…that's fine."

"Fine, then." She smiled. Something about it seemed odd, but he brushed it off as the general weirdness of this whole damn place. It was bound to affect the inhabitants. "Please let me know if I can get anything else for you. It'll be my pleasure. I do hope you enjoy the room." She scuttled off before Greg could thank her again, and he turned to say something to Mycroft about their good fortune.

The words froze on his lips. Mycroft was stood pale and ramrod-straight, staring at the portrait as if he recognised someone and really wished he hadn't. 

Greg touched his elbow. "Love?"

With a start, Mycroft shook his attention to Greg. "Hm? I apologise. What did she say?"

Greg frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly well."

"Do you know them?"

"No. No, I don't."

"You looked as if you'd seen a ghost."

Mycroft made a noise which was probably supposed to be a laugh. "Oh, no. Not at all. I thought I knew them for a moment, that's all, but I was mistaken. No matter."

But when Greg let it pass and went to unpack, he noticed that Mycroft had drawn the curtains over the painting before he attended to his own bags.

When he had mostly finished, Greg plopped down on the foot of the bed and took a long, deep, steady breath. Mycroft appeared at his elbow with a flask.

"Where did you get that?"

"Where do you think?" Mycroft produced two silver cups and an intense expression, and Greg couldn't hold back the giggles.

"What is it?"

"Whiskey."

Soon, Greg might have warmth in his belly to match the warmth in his chest. "You make a deliciously evil boy scout."

Mycroft lifted both eyebrows. "Yes. I know."

As they drank, the crackle in the fireplace and the wind in the eaves made a companionable silence. Greg broke it. "What do you want to do now?"

"I suppose we could be sociable."

"It would be polite."

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm really not."

"What's the trouble?"

"I'm too knackered for small talk."

Mycroft gave him a soft kiss. "We have over an hour before lunch. I recommend a nap."

"A nap."

"A nap at midday is one of the most decadent pastimes I can imagine."

"I think you need a better imagination."

"Are you coming to bed or not?"

" _Absolutely_."

* * *

When Greg awoke, the clock on the mantel showed that only an hour had passed, but he was as logy as if he'd slept a week. He sighed, and Mycroft stirred behind him and squeezed his ribs, snugging his hipbones up tightly to Greg's arse.

"That was necessary," he said, and yawned in Greg's ear.

"Mmm." Greg stretched, arching backward.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good. Less woozy. More groggy."

"I'll take it."

"So will I."

Fresh snow had settled in a light-muffling blanket over the skylight, and the fire was still crackling, so everything was lit in a two-toned fill of blue and orange. It looked like a stage play and smelled of woodsmoke and winter and wood polish, and the hush wrapped round them as cosily as the duvet.

Greg shifted about in the bed and pulled a face. “I miss our mattress.”

“Already?”

He snorted. “It’s perfect.”

“So we made a good decision.”

“Much better than buying each other scarves.”

“I would not have bought you a scarf.”

“As an example.”

“Better than ties, certainly.”

“I suspect you’d prefer to pick out my ties.” Greg squeezed Mycroft's arm.

“I’d prefer to pick out your _suits_.”

“You’ve already made a decent start.”

“We’ll get you wearing cufflinks yet.”

“Not on your life.”

Mycroft kissed Greg's shoulder. “James Bond wears cufflinks.”

“James Bond doesn’t have to be there while they process crime scenes.”

“James Bond _creates_ the crime scenes.”

“This is what I’m saying.”

"So no cufflinks."

"I'd appreciate it."

"Noted." Mycroft nuzzled into him. "It's still cosy."

"Mmm." Floating in the dreamlike calm, Greg pushed back into Mycroft's hips. His heartrate picked up speed.

"Very cosy." Mycroft kissed the back of his neck, and his hand slipped from Greg's stomach down the front of his boxers to play idly, gently.

Greg sucked in a breath. "Are we testing out this mattress?"

"We _are_ on holiday. And I've scarcely seen you all week. I can hardly be expected to keep my hands to myself."

"This explains your enthusiasm."

"That is an interesting way to spell 'erection', a subject which I am keen to explore."

Greg cracked up, turning round to laugh full-bore into Mycroft's mouth and slide his hand down Mycroft's pants. Long minutes were lost in the fog of speeding heart, steady care, and deep, profound adoration. Mycroft moaned into the kiss as Greg's hand moved fast, faster, speeding soft over increasing rigidity.

"Shhh," said Greg.

"These walls are thick."

"I don't want to test them."

"We're fine."

"Is the thought of being heard making you harder?"

Mycroft chuckled, a dry, breathy, panting thing. "Your _hand_ is making me harder."

"How much harder?"

"I don't have a metric for that."

"More than a handjob in the back of a car, less than that time you hadn't come in three weeks?"

"Mmm," Mycroft hummed. "Keep mentioning the latter, and you'll scuttle the results."

"I look forward to the mess."

Mycroft broke the mood with a full-body laugh, which he pressed into Greg's shoulder.

"Shhh, we're being serious here."

"Yes, of course." Mycroft dripped sarcasm into a kiss, clumsy with smiling. "Very serious." He slipped down Greg's body beneath the covers, touching every inch of skin, without a bit of subtlety. He dragged Greg's pants down with him.

"This is one way to avoid mess."

"Do you want me to talk, or do you want to come?"

Greg's brain stuttered. "You make a compelling argument."

"I'll see what I can do."

The room was warm, but Mycroft's mouth was warmer. Greg strained upward into the heat and gave himself over to everything on offer.

Mycroft's hand was deft and mobile and soft. Mycroft's mouth was wet. Mycroft's breath shook.

Mycroft's attention was very, very good.

Greg lost track of time in the ebb and flow, the gentle pull, the slick and stroke, the suction that built upon itself until his spine was bowed and tense, and every breath produced a moan. He had flipped from steady pleasure into the panicked grasping for release, the fizzling brilliance on the edge of a fall, when something hit the skylight with a bang that shook the room.

Shock dashed his arousal like ice water. There was a magnificent ruckus, as if something were trying to claw through the skylight. A raven caw boomed off the glass, and the skylight shuddered with another bang. Then was the sound of talons scratching. The sound of wings thumping. The bizarre sound of takeoff through snow and glass and fear. Then silence, and breath, and heartbeat in his ears.

When his pulse finally quieted enough, he could hear someone knocking at the door. "Hello?" said Magda. "Just wanted to let you know we're serving lunch now."

The clock struck one.

Greg went boneless, his terror gone, leaving only weakness in his limbs and his pulse thumping in his neck. "Jesus christ."

He had been only vaguely aware of Mycroft's echoing shout at the time, and he checked in to find him staring catatonic at the skylight. Now that the ravens had gone, snow had been kicked away from parts of the window, leaving a dome of whiteness punctuated by silver-blue sky.

"Just birds. You okay?"

Mycroft remained motionless for a strange few seconds, then nodded. Greg wasn't sure he had blinked yet. Then the spell was broken, and he softened. He stroked a hand down Greg's ribs. "Fine. Fine. Just startled."

"No shit." Greg swallowed. "Well. I'm not sure I can stomach lunch now."

"Quite." Mycroft forced a smile. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault." Greg meant to only give him a brief kiss, but it lingered, a hard press that did more to settle his nerves than any other tonic they had. "You didn't call down _corvus interruptus_.

"You mean—"

"Shush." Another lingering kiss, both to steady Greg's pulse and stop the pedantic twaddle. "Joke."

"Of course." Mycroft kissed him back, breathing heavily through his nose and clutching on to Greg's hips as if groping for a stability of his own.

Greg wrapped him up in a full-body embrace and hummed. "Thanks for not biting down."

Mycroft's tension broke with a snort of laughter, and he clung on tighter, if not as desperately. "Thank my training in self-control."

"We'll go eat in a moment."

"That's what I was doing." Greg lost it, and Mycroft joined him for a bit of sophomoric giggling that erased the last few threads of fear. He added, "And they'll know it."

Greg pressed words into Mycroft's skin. "So long as they didn't actually hear us, I don't think I care."

* * *

"Magda tells us you were having an exciting time up there," said Martha, wickedly. Andy smirked.

"Yeah, we had a very bizarre Poe moment."

"Poe?" said Hannah. Lydia's eyes lit up.

"Our alarm clock was some ravens colliding with the skylight."

"Ah," Hannah said, "there's a nest on the chimney. That happens sometimes."

Which was probably why the room wasn't used too often. That, and the disconcerting portrait.

"At any rate," said Joan, "sit and have lunch. We've only just started."

"Roast beef, horseradish, the works," added Martha.

"You can tell us all about your plans for the day. Unless you wanted to come to church with the rest of us," Joan said, holding out her plate for Martha to add potatoes to it.

Greg looked over at Hannah, who had struck him as the sort of person for whom religion was anathema. The idea of her attending church struck him as very odd. “Er…”

“I’m afraid we have other plans for this afternoon," said Mycroft.

He hit on an excuse. "We have a Skype call with my daughter to plan the week together."

"Tough with no internet," said Martha.

_Shit._ "I keep forgetting."

"As it happens, I hoped we'd take a walk," said Mycroft, much to Greg's surprise.

Joan smiled. "That sounds nice."

"Cold," said Lydia.

"You could have a snowball fight," Andy offered. "Never too old for that."

"I'll bear that in mind," said Mycroft.

One of the maids—Tillie?—came into the room and scanned it for, presumably, Mrs Gaspard.

"She's in the garden with Cook, dear," said Martha, and received a bewildered smile and half a curtsey for her trouble before the girl disappeared into the side corridor again. Martha shrugged with a dry smirk. "Nice girl, not too bright. But her family has always sent their girls here, so the house makes space for them even if they're surplus to requirements. Magda takes up the slack. She always has."

She launched into a story to illustrate, but Greg couldn't possibly care less about the intricacies of who was engaged to whom and when they served, so while Mycroft made polite noises and nodded along, Greg took the opportunity to stare out the window at the snow. It lay thick upon the towering hedgerow and the small orchard beside it, and he wondered what the cook and Mrs Gaspard could possibly be doing outside in this sort of weather. Perhaps they were in the tiny greenhouse he'd seen off to the west, and not the kitchen garden at all. It hardly mattered, but it did seem cold as balls outside, so whatever it was must have been important. It was probably to do with dinner, which the website described as “sumptuously festive”.

As long as it wasn’t a fucking boar’s head, “sumptuously festive” sounded great.

He peered through the nearest hedge, imagining the garden beyond. Martha spoke into his ear.

"Dire, isn't it. Bet the roads are a horror."

Greg yanked his attention away from the people he couldn't see and back to the people he could. "Touch and go for a while."

"There'll be black ice. Absolute deathtrap."

Greg remembered that theirs had been the only tyre tracks leading to the car park. "When did you say you all got here?"

"Oh, last weekend," said Joan, taking her eyes off her food for the barest millisecond. "We needed time to relax. Before the communion."

"The…communion."

"Tonight. Twelfth Night. An auspicious time for a séance. Since it's the anniversary."

Greg was at a loss for words. He blinked. His brain spun and refused to bite, just like their tyres on the drive here. "I…see."

"They aren't here for the communion, darling," said Martha.

"…No, we're not," Greg said at the same time Mycroft answered, "I'm afraid not."

"Oh, you're welcome to join us, I'm sure." Joan was wearing a ridiculously sunny expression for someone discussing communication with the dead. "The communion is always a revelatory experience."

Hannah solemnly intoned, over a forkful of mashed potato. "The Lady provides."

"They're on their way to see Greg's daughter," said Martha. "They're not interested in the events tonight."

Joan pouted. "Not even the ouija board? That's only a bit of fun. Before the real deal."

Everyone looked at Greg. Greg looked at Mycroft. Mycroft looked at his meal.

"Not really my thing, I'm afraid," he finally said.

"Ah well, nobody's perfect," said Martha. "Even with that jawline of yours." She held out a dish. "More sprouts?"

* * *

Once the rest had gone to church, Greg pulled on the jumper Mycroft’s parents had given him for Christmas, and tried to smooth the staticky fluff of his hair. "Where do you want to go?" he asked.

Mycroft was busy getting ready himself. "I thought we'd take a walk around the property. The woods out back seem quiet enough. No one for miles."

"Sounds sinister."

"Only to you."

"I've said it a million times, love: I live in the city for a reason. You look at this countryside and see peace. I see the miles of space between homes, and how there's no one to hear you scream."

"Because you're a cop."

"Curse of the job."

"The last time you holidayed in the country, you got me as a reward. Surely that's at least one tick in its favour."

"Sure. But I was also poisoned by underground gas jets and nearly killed."

Mycroft finished lacing up his shoes. "You make a fair point."

"I know I do. Come on, let's go."

* * *

There was a break in the snowfall, so as they forged out into the world Greg could allow himself a brief moment of appreciation for its beauty instead of imagining crime or bitching about it being cold. Though it really was goddamn cold.

"You'll warm as we walk," said Mycroft, addressing his unspoken complaint.

"Why are you suddenly a forest ranger?"

"Snowy woodland is one of my particular pleasures."

Greg blinked at him. "Seriously?"

Mycroft twitched a shrug. "It's ethereal."

"Everything's dead."

"Or sleeping."

Greg didn't know what else to say. He supposed Mycroft was a painter for a reason. "Well. I'm glad you like it, I guess."

Mycroft sniffed. "I do."

They passed the tiny car park, and a shed, then came to a roughshod complex of outbuildings which functioned as a jumbled haven for hens, pigeons, and rabbits.

_Sumptuously festive._ "I guess this is where dinner is coming from."

"It does seem likely, yes."

"That's one way to guarantee a feast."

"One wonders what they do with it the rest of the year."

"Maybe it's how they raise money? I can't imagine this place can support itself otherwise."

"Plausible. But I suspect I shouldn't think too hard about it."

"Because you'll be forced to investigate?"

"You have your pitfalls. I have mine."

"And you're on vacation."

"I am on vacation."

He walked close enough to jostle Mycroft's arm every few steps, but couldn't muster the bravery to take his hand, even here, as if the snow would judge. He matched his gait instead.

There was a group of ravens playing in the treetops, some game which involved a lot of swooping and landing back on the same branch where they started.

"Hannah told me that ravens are incredibly smart. Tool using, prank playing. Mimicry," Greg said.

"Even more reason not to let them watch us have sex."

Greg winced. "I was trying to forget."

"I would suggest you not raise the subject of ravens, then."

The snow and the sky were the same colour, a flat greyish-white that left Greg feeling like they were walking in a black and white film set. There was always something artificial about snowfall, and with the buoyant emotion lifting his chest, the moment was otherworldly and transcendent.

They crested a hillock at the break in the trees, and before them stretched the lake.

It was icy round the perimeter, a glassine halo ringing a silver pool. A small quadrillion of ducks were bobbing in the centre for their Twelfth Night dinner, while Greg and Mycroft made a meandering and jolting path down to the bank. Once there, Greg tucked his hand into the crook of Mycroft's arm, and hummed when he pressed it against his side. The endothermic reaction of company and conversation and closeness kept him warm.

"It's really quite beautiful," Mycroft said.

"If you like this sort of thing."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow,

"Oh, fine. It's beautiful even if you don't."

Chuckling, Mycroft leaned in and wrapped him gently in a cloud of warmth and vetiver. Greg was wearing his new pea coat, and he hadn't felt that snug in ages. He stroked his hands down Mycroft's spine, tucking his thumbs into box pleats at the small of Mycroft's back.

"I admit, this was a good idea," Greg said. The steam of his breath puffed out over Mycroft's shoulder and quickly disappeared.

Mycroft adjusted so Greg was even closer. "Warm enough?"

" _I've got my love to keep me warm,_ " he whisper-sang. Mycroft shivered, and Greg let his head press gently against the side of his face. "Where do you want to go now?"

"I would like to stand here a moment."

"We can do that."

The ducks began quacking at something. Greg scanned the pond for whatever was pestering them, and saw that, to his awe, flying toward them was a small group of swans. They beat their wings in time and in formation, then landed, in a heartwrenching show of beauty, on the surface of the pond.

The woods were still, and the wind was, for the moment, quiet. And seven white birds silently swam circles in the centre of the pond.

The peace was more than Greg could bear, and he turned his head to pressed a hard buss to Mycroft's cheek. "Nothing so casual," he said, his lips catching on Mycroft's stubble.

Mycroft hummed and kissed him fully once, and again, and with a small noise, pulled him into a kiss as warm and soft as an eiderdown wrapped around them against the snowy winter frost. Greg's hands slipped on the fine wool of Mycroft's coat, so he buried them in his hair instead. Which still wasn't enough, but it'd do.

"We need a roaring fire, and good coffee, and Ella on the stereo," said Greg on a breath.

"I need to give you a foot rub," added Mycroft.

Greg couldn't fight the grin. "Yes you do."

Mycroft smiled, brighter than the sun on snow.

Off across the valley, the bells of the church tolled three o'clock.

The ducks began complaining as the wind blew up. Powdery snow on the surface of the pond lifted into a cloud and billowed toward the centre, where it settled over the swans. Stirred, they burst through the veil and were now crossing the ice. Toward them.

"Hey, love," said Greg.

"I see them."

"Swans are assholes, you know..."

"Perhaps we should sound the retreat."

Neither of them moved. The swans were hypnotisingly beautiful, silent and pristine, and it was hard to imagine they were any threat. But one spread its wings and flew a few yards closer, then another did, and soon the group were rolling forward in a braided rhythm of avian advance, and the image was no longer serene. Greg frantically tried to remember if you were meant to stand your ground and make noise at swans, or whether that was just bears. He decided to back away, and in his haste, he fell over a tree root. Water soaked his jeans, freezing and immediate.

Mycroft was shouting wordlessly at the birds while trying to help him up when the chorus of ravens from the treeline descended en-masse in a roiling mass of black and beak, a tumbling spill of pitch from treetop to snow. They continued their game down on the ground, swooping at the swans, diving them back toward the water. Buying Greg and Mycroft time.

The two of them booked it into the woods, feet slipping on buried branches and toes snarling in snowy underbrush. They used tree trunks for stability, shaking new snowfall over them with each stumble. Mycroft nearly took a digger near a fallen oak, but Greg was near enough and stable enough to hold him up, and Greg fell again close enough to the house that they could see the window flash of reflected winter sky, but he only got one knee down before Mycroft hooked him under the arm and yanked him up, and eventually they emerged from the woods in a fumbling, bumbling knot of adrenaline, sweating and snow-soaked and shaking.

The storm had started again, and so the world they emerged into was a freezing swirl, but at last they felt safe enough to breathe.

Greg looked at Mycroft, whose hair was wet and clotted with white, whose nose was furiously red, and whose eyes looked startlingly blue in the morning light of the snowfall, and decided he had no other recourse but to kiss the hell out of him.

After an indulgent moment or three, Mycroft broke it with laughter. "Is this the right time for this?"

"Yes."

"You are a ridiculous man."

"We were nearly killed by an angry flock of swans, saved when ravens decided to pick a fight, and ran through the woods like children. I'm cold and sweaty and my socks are fucking soaked. I'm kissing you."

"I question your reasoning, but I don't mind the result."

"You know what I want now?"

"Whiskey?"

"I want that roaring fire, and a locked door, and I want to strip you down and take you to bed and make you laugh until you cry. But I'll also take a whiskey."

The joy in Mycroft's eyes eclipsed the brightness of the world around them. "As soon as possible."

* * *

Greg stoked the fire until it sang. By the time he'd finished, Mycroft was already stark naked and untying Greg's boots.

"I'll say one good thing about being outside: it's so nice when we're not."

Mycroft smouldered at him. "Right foot."

Boots, socks. Jumper, shirts. Sopping jeans, cold pants. Layer by layer, firelight licking every inch of new-revealed skin. The heat melted any residual strain from their flight, and Greg grabbed Mycroft by the hips and kissed him until their hearts raced.

"You know what we're forgetting?" Mycroft said against his mouth.

"The whiskey?"

"Sit down."

"Here?" The hearthrug didn't seem like the most comfortable place.

"Sit down."

But the slight mischief on Mycroft's face was enough to be convincing, so he sat while Mycroft poured their drinks into his tiny cups. When Mycroft handed him his share, Greg took a moment to inhale. Whiskey, woodfire, warm wool. Quiet sanctuary, and Mycroft by his side. Heaven.

Mycroft's silver cup looked golden as he lifted it. "To an unexpected rescue."

"To adrenaline as an aphrodisiac."

Mycroft clinked cups with him.

Greg sipped his drink, then chuckled. "This is ridiculous."

"Decadent, yes."

"I'm going to remember this forever."

"Always my goal."

Greg stroked his fingers down Mycroft's sternum, trailed them through his chest hair, then dragged them across his nipple. Mycroft hissed. His skin was already hot from the fire, and his breath came quicker. "Delicious."

"I agree."

The carpet was scratchy under Greg's arse, but when Mycroft slid his hand into his lap and began stroking, the texture underneath him hardly mattered. The firelight flickered on the side of Mycroft's face, his expression dappled in gold and shadow. He glowed with adoration.

Greg leaned in to kiss him, open-mouthed. Slickness and peat, tongue and breath. "I'd fuck you right here, if I thought I wouldn't hurt myself."

"If only this were a bearskin rug."

"How lucky there's a perfectly good bed right behind us."

"And I didn't finish making you come in it this morning."

"Then I suggest we get to work."

The sheets felt slightly chilly after the heat of the fire, but the contrast was beautiful. Between friction and the duvet and the combustible level of desire, the two of them were soon sweating and slick.

Greg crawled over him on all fours and thrust against his palm. "On my back?"

"Stay like this."

"Gladly. Why?"

"I want to see your face."

With a flare of emotion Greg dove in breath-deep, head to toe, soul and heart, and all sense of time melted away. In no rush whatsoever, they lost themselves in the push and pull, the tug, the gasp, the fluttering breath and the moaning sigh, and Greg curled his hips into Mycroft's hand to the rhythm of a _squeak-squeak-squeak_ of the bedframe on every thrust. Greg buried his fingers in Mycroft's hair and pushed forward, straining, relishing the sublime vulnerability of the act: thighs wide, undulating spine, hard cock and soft hand, every pleasure plain to see.

Mycroft made a broken and plaintive noise into Greg's mouth, and it drove a spike of arousal through Greg's system that made him so hard could scarcely breathe.

"Ohhh, please come," Mycroft groaned. "I need to watch you come."

The bedsprings creaked louder, faster, and Greg began to shake at the edge of a spectacular orgasm. Everything tightened between his legs. "Jesus chr—" There was a cacophony downstairs, a clatter and a crash and the high, sharp shock of breaking glass. The rest of the phrase died in his throat.

He went absolutely motionless, except for the thunder of his heart.

"What the fuck was that?" Greg stared into Mycroft's eyes. Mycroft stared back. Greg's heart was racing out of fear now, instead of arousal, and he strained to hear anything else from downstairs. He felt a bit ill.

Then he heard the unmistakable cadence of Andy's voice, and the low droll sass of Lydia's, and Greg was reluctantly grateful that the crash had interrupted them.

"What the hell time is it?

"I expected Mass to go on for at least another hour." Mycroft had rolled out of bed and was trying to get dressed, making a outrageous frown at the bulging state of his pants.

Worried about the same thing, as well as the telltale stubble burn raging its way across his chin and the red swell of Mycroft's mouth, Greg left his shirt untucked and thoroughly splashed his face with cold water. "Let's see what's going on."

The took several calming, fortifying breaths, groomed each other in a pathetic attempt to seem like they hadn't just been shagging, and forged out into the world.

* * *

Lydia was picking up the large pieces, and Andy was standing by with a dustpan. Every single picture from the ships wall had fallen to the ground.

"We just walked in the front door," Joan said. "And there they went. CRASH."

"That _is_ distressing," said Mycroft.

"I don't understand what happened," said Mrs Gaspard. "These have been up for…years."

The elder set were distracted, and didn't betray any suspicion of what he and Mycroft had been doing upstairs, but he caught Lydia's smirking half-smile, and saw her exchange knowing glances with Andy.

"Do you have any theories?" Greg asked.

Mrs Gaspard took in the destruction, at a loss. "There was rainwater in the wall in the east wing, so perhaps that did it?"

"Maybe the plaster softened?" he heard Martha offer, without much enthusiasm.

Mrs Gaspard sagged. "What a mess."

Greg lost the thread of the conversation when something dark caught the corner of his eye. It was the silhouette of a ship, sailing across the damask wallpaper and rippling over the window treatments as if driven by an otherworldly winter wind. He smelled the sea. The single ship split into a fleet of a hundred smaller ships, which set out silently along the second wall, flowing over everyone's faces, then over to the wall where they once hung. There they gathered into a jumble then flowed downward into the fallen frames in a ghastly streak. The hair rose on the back of Greg's neck, and he stepped closer to Mycroft, who was talking to Hannah while running his hand along the wall. He wished he'd brought a gun.

For all that would help this situation. At all.

"They don't all seem to be damaged," said Mrs Gaspard, as Andy brought her a pile of paintings and tintypes. "More's the miracle."

Miracle was not, in Greg's opinion, the word for it.

"I need some air," he muttered to no one in particular, and headed out the door in his shirtsleeves.

The crispness smacked him in the face, knocking loose the skittered panic under his skin, leaving him more clearheaded as he leaned against the side of the house to think. Either he was under the influence of something, or he was going mad, and he didn't know which one was more likely. And he seemed to be the only one experiencing it, which made investigation a tricky thing. He was not ready to admit that there might legitimately be something wrong with him.

And yet.

The front door opened and closed, and Mycroft appeared round the side of the house bearing his and Greg's coats.

"Footprints in the snow?" said Greg.

Mycroft twitched a shrug. "What's going on, please."

"Nothing."

"You're out here without a coat."

"Not anymore."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Are you frustrated about being interrupted again?"

"A little," Greg said, even if that wasn't the entire story.

"Because I am. But the cold air is helping."

"Quite a bit."

"At least we stopped before we were heard."

"Like you would have hated it if someone listened to you come."

"I prefer to engage in my exhibitionism willingly, thank you."

"Fair enough."

The snow was falling again, heavier and larger now, and up in the trees the ravens complained to each other about the state of it. Greg rifled in his coat for his emergency stash, then shook out a cigarette and his lighter.

"One more, please," said Mycroft.

Greg peered at him. "Really?"

"It's been a disconcerting day."

Greg allowed them several minutes of quiet, comforting indulgence as they smoked. "I'd like to leave tomorrow," he said.

"Do you think that will be possible?"

"I'm hoping."

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"I'm just anxious to see Sharon, that's all."

"Ah." Mycroft swallowed. "Understandable."

"I keep thinking about this one winter when she was prepping for her O-levels, and she got stuck in the house during a snowstorm. She had us all studying for her O-levels."

Mycroft smiled, a small thing that warmed their little alcove beneath the eaves. "That sounds very like her."

"She's a force." Greg took a slow, steady drag, feeling the panic recede, and he shoved his worries to the back of his possibly-degenerating mind. "What do you think we're having for dinner?"

"The usual, I expect. Turkey, trimmings. Perhaps a game pie. Cake. Are you hungry?"

"Not especially."

"Nor I."

The memory of dancing shadows threatened from the corners of his memory, and he didn't particularly want to go back into the house. He watched the snow fall. "I really want to get out of here tomorrow."

"Your wish is my command."

* * *

In spite of the shock of falling ships, at dinner the group were in good spirits, both literal and figurative. Martha was laughing, Joan was sparkling, Hannah was actually cracking jokes, and Lydia and Andy's touches had become less comforting and more sensual. Greg decided to have a drink as well, and by the time they got to the poultry course he was feeling more than a little insulated from the winter chill. Mycroft even joined in, squeezing Greg's knee under the table not once but twice.

The partridge was fucking delicious. He didn't think he'd had partridge since a hunting trip when he was ten. And the chicken was incredible, but he supposed that's what happened when the bird was fresh. He had to admit to himself that when he'd envisioned a sumptuously festive meal he had envisioned something classically Dickensian—goose, and turnips, a game pie from their supply out back—but for all of Mulberry Manor's other faults, dinner was tastefully on-point.

And there was even more to eat beyond the birds and the lack of literary panache. There was also cranberry sauce, two kinds of potatoes, croquettes, carrots, brussels sprouts, and a giant basket of bread rolls. It was far more food than the eight of them could ever hope to eat, and Greg wondered whether the leftovers were sent on to families in need, or what the hell they were planning to do with it. Between the strange emphasis on church and the air of patronage which Mrs Gaspard gave off when referencing the rest of the village, he wouldn't have been surprised if this meal were meant for more than the gathered assembly.

"How was your day, then?" Martha asked Hannah. "We missed you at church." Greg didn't know she hadn't gone.

"Oh, did you?" she said, not even bothering to look sincere. "I'm afraid I had my own solemnities to attend to."

"You're still researching raven behaviour?" said Joan.

"Yes. Breeding pairs."

"Specifically in the winter?"

"Hannah comes here frequently," Mrs Gaspard explained to Greg and Mycroft. "It's quite a long-term project, and we're always glad to see her. Some day we'll convince her to give a talk to the WI."

"Not really my thing either, I'm afraid," said Hannah. "Prefer singles to groups."

"Here's a question about raven behaviour," said Greg. "Have you ever known them to defend people?" Next to him, he felt Mycroft freeze.

"Well," she said, and gestured with her fork, "That's an interesting question. Within groups they've been known to…"

She was interrupted by the arrival of a different bird, a gigantic goose being wheeled in by both girls. Martha whooped, Joan laughed, and the room in general forgot about ravens. Mrs Gaspard looked confused for just a moment, but then she stood up to begin doling out their next course.

Greg didn't know how he was going to make room for more bird, and Mrs Gaspard laughed.

"This is the last one." She handed Martha some goose. "…I suppose," she added in a murmur.

Mycroft stepped in, being very Mycroft. "It's all been delicious."

Mrs Gaspard preened. "I'll tell Cook. She's always very protective of this feast. Might be her favourite one of the year. She goes all out. Surprises even me."

"She likes the holidays?" said Mycroft.

"Well. Yes… But." There was a flash of confusion on her face. "This is also the official communion feast, you know."

Greg's stomach churned, an unpleasant sensation when he was so full.

"But yes," said Mrs Gaspard. "Cook does very much love the holidays. As do all of us here."

"You'll join us for dessert and the cake?" said Joan.

"With pleasure," said Mycroft, but Greg didn't hear the rest. The air pressure rose rapidly, and the walls of the dining room became a picture box, a Victorian motion machine, with silhouettes spinning and dancing around the walls in an inside-out carousel. The picture showed a film of dancing lords and ladies, with birds flying overhead. At one point, the group was momentarily broken by a pair of swans chasing the caboose, but it quickly resolved once more into a solid spin of dervish. He smelled the ozone of winter air, and on the very edge of his hearing was a discordant clash of fife and pipe and drum.

And then it was gone, and Mycroft was whispering in his ear. "Are you unwell?"

Greg considered what to say, "A bit."

"Would you like me to make excuses for you?"

"I'm fine. But I need a drink."

"Digestive?"

"Don't care."

"Take mine. I think I've had enough." Mycroft nudged his glass, which contained a rather splendid spiced concoction which immediately made Greg feel slightly more drunk and infinitely more capable.

"I'd thought we were having turkey as usual," Mrs Gaspard was saying to Martha, "but Cook had ambitions."

"I'd wondered." Martha lifted her glass. "Not that I'm complaining."

If he was the only one having hallucinations, which seemed to be the case, it couldn't be the food. Or the drink. But it had to be something, because the alternative—that he was going mad—was too much to compass.

He drank more of Mycroft's spiced liquid comfort and leaned back in his chair. Mycroft squeezed his knee.

"This has been a very strange day," Mycroft murmured into his ear.

Greg hoisted the glass. "I'll drink to that."

* * *

Andy and Joan were giggling in the corner like a couple of schoolgirls. Greg wondered how much wine they'd had with dinner, though he really wasn't one to judge. He himself was pleasantly toasty, nestled into one of the armchairs next to the fire, trying to disapparate.

Mycroft was in the other armchair, reading something-or-other about ships which he'd found on one of the bookshelves. Lydia was at Andy's side on the settee reading her own book, and Martha and Hannah were off doing whatever post-dinner things they'd felt were necessary. Digesting, likely. Mrs Gaspard came into the room and startled Greg with a clap of hands.

"So, loves, what shall we do next? We've miles to go before midnight, and there's still the mince pies, the cake, the games, and the carols. Shall we sing?" The looks of terror on everyone's faces finally made a dent in her enthusiasm, and she sagged. No doubt she'd envisioned a cosy Dickensian dream, with songs round the fire and rollocking games of Blind Man's Bluff. As far as Greg was concerned, the only Dickensian thing likely that night was the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come manifesting in the fireplace and ushering them all to hell.

"I'll go find Magda."

"That was a narrow escape," said Andy. Lydia snorted over her book, and nestled further into his side. "Her voice is terrible." Greg wondered yet again what their relationship was, but didn't know quite how to ask. He thought it might come out sounding prosecutorial.

Greg was bored, overfull, and exhausted. He slumped backward into the wingback and lost himself in the fire.

Smoke eddied in the draft from the room, rippling like bedroom curtains, and the flames licked upward in a dance which reminded him unsettlingly of ballet. But the gentle murmur of the others in the room merged with the crackle of the fire and the howl of wind in the eaves to become a wall of white noise punctuated by quiet laughter. The peace settled into his bones. Wrapped in the solidity of the chair and the warmth of the flame and the happiness of the company, he felt safe for the first time all day, and while Mycroft turned pages at his side, Greg fell into a doze.

He awoke to a clatter and chatter, and the sound of furniture being rearranged round a circular table. Mrs Gaspard was setting up dessert.

"There's plenty for all," she said, an understatement, "so don't be shy." She was already handing out the Twelfth Night cake while Greg was still rubbing bleariness from his eyes.

"Nice nap?" Mycroft said to him, in a voice like a warm blanket.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Andy is Mrs Gaspard's nephew, they and Martha and Joan come here every year, and more villagers will be arriving for whatever séance they plan to do at midnight."

"What the fuck?"

"I wish I knew."

"We're still leaving tomorrow?"

"I do hope so."

Mrs Gaspard appeared with their slices of cake. "It's Cook's famous recipe. Do join in."

"Oh." Greg blinked, wondering how he was going to manage it. "Sure."

She beamed at them and continued passing out needless sweets.

"I'm going to explode," Greg murmured.

"You don't have to eat it."

"No, no. I'll try."

"Or you could pretend."

"Push it around my plate?"

"Like a child."

Greg snorted.

"To a joyous Epiphany, everyone," Mrs Gaspard said. There was a general murmur, and everyone dug in.

It was surprisingly good. Apple and spices and bits of other fruit Greg didn't bother to identify, but sooner than he imagined and far sooner than he wished, his fork struck something hard and un-foodlike. His heart sunk.

As he opened his mouth to own up to it, Martha began chuckling. "Well, I'm the King," she said, and produced a bean from between her lips. Joan began giggling alongside her, and whispered something in her ear that made both of them break into bawdy peals of laughter that rang off the flagstone chimney.

Greg poked at the goddamn thing, but instead of being dull and pea-like, it glinted in the firelight. He frowned.

"Curious," said Mycroft. He scraped his fork along his plate, and, to Greg's astonishment, nudged a golden ring toward the rim. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Ahahaha, and I'm your queen!" said Andy with overwhelming delight. He held up his pea like a trophy.

Stomach clenching for an entirely different reason this time, Greg finished unearthing a golden ring in his own cake. "What the actual fuck," he murmured. "You didn't do this, I take it."

"I should think not."

"Oh my goodness!" said Mrs Gaspard. "Cook has surprised us again. Looks like Greg and Mycroft have some little surprises in their cake as well."

Greg forced a smile and reluctantly held up the ring he'd unearthed. Beside him, Mycroft did the same. Greg had never seen him look so embarrassed. So much for avoiding any more special treatment.

"Well," she said, "this is a fun celebration! Put them on, put them on!"

No one in the room seemed to want to help him, and the walls weren't caving in, and no spectre appeared to usher them into a new tomorrow, so Greg grit his teeth and slipped the ring on, much to the merriment of the assembled hoard. He couldn't look at Mycroft.

"You weren't wearing rings before?" asked Joan.

"Gregory dislikes the sensation, so we agreed no," Mycroft lied quickly.

"I tell you, that Cook is full of surprises," said Mrs Gaspard. "Who would like some brandy?"

Greg was the first in line.

* * *

The clock on the mantel had barely chimed ten when there was a knock at the door.

"Tillie, come answer it. It's your turn!"

Martha muttered into Greg's ear. "Tradition." The group of them followed, to gather in the foyer and watch the proceedings. Wassailers, Greg assumed, and sure enough Tillie threw back the lock and opened the door upon a ragged group of villagers in festive clothing. Young and old, rosy-cheeked or wan as custard. Most were holding candle lanterns, and all were smiling.

But what drew Greg's attention was hobby horse travelling with this group, because it was like no hobby horse he'd ever seen.

It was a giant, terrifying, grey hooded creature, and not a horse in any way. In lieu of a clacking mouth it had a beak, and instead of a single pole it was operated by three women, two of whom were in charge of its wings. Greg had a sneaking suspicion it was meant to be—

"The Lady Raven is here!" said Mrs Gaspard, clapping her hands in front of her chest and gazing at it with such adoration Greg wondered if she were seeing something other than the papier-mâché and tattered-cotton creature in front of them.

The group of villagers began to sing, " _Wassail, wassail, all over the town,_ " but Greg couldn't take his eyes off the awkward dance of the puppet.

" _And here's to the maid in the lily white smock_ ," the group sang, and Tillie blushed.

Greg needed more drink for this.

In the centre of the foyer was a table of biscuits and pies, and the sad remains of the cake. He looked for something stronger than tea, to no avail.

Joan tsked at him. "Not until the wassail bowl, dear. Have some milk." Which explained the giant jug of it, thick and creamy and marvellously unappetising.

Luckily a group was going round with a gigantic wassail bowl, ladling out cupfuls and passing them round. Greg supposed that he might as well be glad that while the group was sharing their ancient creepy rite, they wouldn't also be sharing norovirus.

Mycroft was standing ramrod-straight in the corner, cataloguing it all for an anthropological lecture at the Royal Society. He'd already received his cup. "This is…not what I expected."

"I don't think it's what anyone expected."

"They clearly did. Look at them."

There was an air of reverent joy among the guests, and the revellers outside had thrown themselves into the tradition with a gusto that shone brighter than the lanterns they bore.

Greg received his cup, but before he even got the drink to his face, Martha shook her head at him. Chastened, he leaned against the wall and tried not to roll his eyes.

When they got to the last verse their tempo slowed, and the raven stilled. The wassailers lifted their lanterns higher and sang a verse Greg had never heard before.

_And here's to the maiden_  
_and here's to the crone_  
_and thanks be the Lady_  
_we're never alone_  
_And if you do sing_  
_and be of good cheer_  
_The Lady will favour you through the year._

The group fell silent. 

Mrs Gaspard stepped forward and lifted her cup. "The Lady provides," she said, loud enough for everyone's ears.

And in one voice, the entire assemblage lifted their own cups and responded, as if at church. "The Lady provides."

"You didn't see a wicker man on our walk, did you?" Greg murmured.

"Hm?"

"Never mind."

In one movement, as if choreographed, he and Mycroft drank.

"Thanks be the Lady," said Mrs Gaspard.

Again, the crowd responded. "Thanks be the Lady."

But this time, the women operating the raven puppet spread its wings and tilted it forward, as if it were bowing.

However, instead of straightening up as Greg expected, the puppet began to morph. Its papier-mâché beak elongated, drooping, turning sharp and shiny and hard as coffin nails. Its ratty cotton shreds became slick and shiny, stone-grey, downy-soft underneath and almost liquid on top. The pole grew along the ground into a gigantic tail. 

Greg backed away from the door as quickly as possible, heart racing. He stumbled over Mycroft.

"Sorry, I just—" he began, forming excuses, but the expression on Mycroft's face froze the words in his throat. He was stock-still, staring at the front door with such an expression of horror that Greg instinctively wanted to shield him from the rest of the room.

He turned back to the front door, and the raven was still there. It opened its beak wide, wider, anatomically, impossibly wide, and a low, rumbling, grating noise came out, a sound like a harsh plastic comb recorded and played back at one-quarter speed, a noise that made the hair on the back of Greg's neck stand on end and his knees go to jelly, a sound which shook the air in the room and made it hard to breathe.

Greg clutched Mycroft's arm, hard, and Mycroft grabbed onto his shoulder as if grasping for reality.

The noise ended and the maw closed with a _clack_ , and the black curling paper eyelashes blinked. When they opened, the giant raven was looking at them with bright blue—and living—eyes. 

And then the beast was gone, replaced by a tattered puppet on a pole, and the oppressive fear eased.

While the raven had held Greg and Mycroft transfixed, the floodgates of jollity had opened and the entire group of villagers had poured into the foyer and into the rooms on both sides. Greg tried to catch his breath. Mycroft was still holding on with bruising strength.

"You saw it too," murmured Greg.

"That was the worst one."

"Worst?"

"Of all the things I've seen today."

The world juddered sideways a moment. "I wasn't the only one."

"Apparently not."

"But they haven't been."

"I feared I was alone."

Greg looked round at the happy revellers, most of whom had filtered into the two sitting rooms on either side of the foyer. Carefree, joyous, and not at all haunted.

"We need to get out of here," he said.

A few stragglers were still chatting in the foyer, including Mrs Gaspard and the cook. "Your dinner was a tour-de-force as usual," Mrs Gaspard said to her as Greg passed.

“I’m pleased you enjoyed it.”

“The goose was a particular pleasure.”

“Goose?”

As Greg neared the centre table, the jug of milk leapt sideways and poured its contents all over him. Jumper, trousers, everything.

"Fuck," he said, jumping out of the way, as if it wasn't too late. Milk was dripping everywhere. "I'm so, so sorry," he said, as Mrs Gaspard clucked at him. The jug itself was wobbling sideways on the table, unharmed, but the foyer rug was soaking and the plate of chocolate biscuits was rapidly becoming a soupy mess.

"Oh dear, no. Don't cry over spilt milk, but your poor clothes. Best get those soaking immediately, or you'll smell sour for days."

"If I can help—"

"No, no. Shower, sink. Take care of yourself. We can handle this."

"If you're sure," he said, but he was already making moves toward the staircase, and Mycroft was halfway up.

"Absolutely. Go! Tillie, fetch Magda. Six hands are better than four."

Greg didn't wait for something else to happen. He was gone.

* * *

"What do we do?" Greg spoke through the muffle of wet wool as he stripped out of his jumper. He dropped it in a wet slap on the floor.

"Shower."

"Yes."

They didn't speak again until they were wrapped in steam, the door locked between them and the rest of the world, hot water washing away gooseflesh and the white noise of the shower protecting them from prying ears.

"We both have been seeing things." Greg said.

"I'd thought I was going mad."

"Same. Hallucinations?"

"Dancers."

"Yes."

"Birds?"

"Same."

"Giant raven?"

Greg shuddered and reached for the slick comfort of Mycroft's skin. "The milk exploded on me."

"I didn't touch it. And you didn't either."

Greg shook his head, rubbing his lips against Mycroft's chest. "Drugged?"

"It's my only theory."

"But apparently we've been hallucinating the same things."

"Power of suggestion."

"And it's just us."

"So it seems," Mycroft said. "This has not been the most comforting of days."

"We need to investigate."

"We will."

"When everyone else is occupied. They're playing with the ouija board at midnight, and I think we should sneak down and do some digging."

"You want to investigate the explanations for haunting, in the dark, at midnight, while a group of strangers are conducting a séance." Mycroft's jaw went tight. "You haven't been nearly as affected by these visions as I have."

"I don't believe in that shit. And I know you don't either."

"We know logically that there must be an explanation."

"And I need to know what it is."

"Then I propose we wait until the morning."

Greg envisioned trying to sleep while the worry of being drugged ate away at the edge of his consciousness. "Not a chance. We do it tonight."

"If you insist. But we'll wait until they've gone to sleep."

"You don't think that'd be _more_ creepy?"

"I'm prioritising the devil we can see over the devil we can't."

"So you think they're devils, now?"

"I don't know what I think."

"Fine." Greg skated his hand down Mycroft's spine. "We'll wait and investigate in the morning."

"I must say, I'm relieved it's not only me."

"Me too."

"I truly feared I was going mad," Mycroft said, so quietly Greg could barely hear him over the shower.

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Why didn't you?"

Greg considered. "I think I wanted to wait until I was sure."

"As did I."

"I didn't want to worry you if it was all in my head."

"Madness _is_ all in our head."

"You know what I mean."

"You wanted to be sure it wasn't more of gravy than of grave. A blob of mustard, a crumb of cheese."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's Dickens."

"That's appropriate."

"The Christmas Carol, in fact."

"Extremely appropriate."

"I thought so."

Greg hung on while Mycroft stroked both hands up and down his back, and tried to put his thoughts in order. "I want to say something, but I don't know how to say it."

"You want to express your frustration that I didn't tell you at the first sign of trouble."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I'm frustrated with you, too."

Greg rested his teeth on Mycroft's shoulder, and spoke against his skin. "Fair enough."

"It seems we have a ways to go in terms of trust."

"I wouldn't have thought so."

"This is different. This is mortality."

"Getting shot isn't?"

"Old age, then."

With a grunt, Greg frowned. "Yeah."

"Slow, graceless, breakdown."

"We're not decrepit, Mycroft."

"But we will be, all things going well. Someday we're going to start breaking down in earnest, and the thought terrifies me. Not only for myself, but for you."

"You know what this is?"

"It's vulnerability."

"It's shitty."

"I have to agree."

"But it's the wages of, what, being together?"

"I would say 'commitment'."

Greg sighed, a heavy thing that rasped oddly off the tiled walls of the shower. "So you're saying that when something does actually go wrong with me, I have to tell you."

"Even though I worry."

"But you have to tell me, too."

"The very instant."

"No you won't. You'll wait until you're sure."

"And so will you."

After a moment, Greg sagged with a tiny laugh. He stroked Mycroft's hips. "We're going to be terrible at this."

"I have faith we'll learn."

"Eventually."

"Eventually."

Greg kissed Mycroft's jaw, his shoulder, his throat. "You know what I like about this plan?"

"Mm?"

"The longevity."

"It assumes permanence, yes."

"I like that about this plan."

Mycroft's hands roamed all over, as if seeking and giving comfort, both at once. "It's a tremendous security."

"You're my partner. You're it. Sickness, health, everything."

"'Til death do us part."

Greg looked into his dear, sopping wet, steam-wreathed face. "We'd already committed."

The tiniest of smiles touched the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "By the time we'd begun."

His hands felt even warmer than the water, and more relaxing, and the safety of being so sure of each other in that tiny stall made Greg's chest overfull. He tilted into a bone-deep kiss, and let the shower carry them away.

It became a fog of touch and taste, a stroking, gasping, grasping, sucking flood of activity that washed them out of the shower and onto the duvet, wet skin and all. The need to be close flashed brighter and clutched harder than reason, and Greg found himself chasing comfort in the stuttering slide of Mycroft's hands and the tiny sounds of Mycroft's pleasure. He wanted to climb inside and take refuge, to wrap himself up and be safe. And the knowledge that Mycroft was feeling the same made every sensation flare hotter, until they were rasping into each others' ears and rubbing hot against each others' skin. Downstairs, Greg vaguely heard the hum of voices and the screech of furniture as they set up their séance, but up in the cocoon of firelight and humidity and vast, trembling passion, he just couldn't give a fuck. Investigations could wait, and logic could wait. Right now was for feeling and connection, and the trembling flutter of Mycroft's gasp as Greg sucked his fingers into his mouth.

He was vulnerable, and he was beautiful, and he was entirely committed to this. For life.

The knowledge drove Greg faster and harder, a knotted frenzy of heat and hands, hard thighs and soft mouths, until the night was so full it couldn't take anymore. His orgasm twisted him like a warm flannel, the steady release of the last day's tension leaving him wrung and empty and calm, flopped on his back on the bed. Mycroft was draped over him, lost in his own delicious hormone soak.

Out in the world, the clock chimed midnight. But even after twelve, the bells kept ringing.

And Greg froze.

First came the light, tinkling, silver bells, high and bright. Then came their brass bedfellows, clangers sharp and ringing like the bowls of Tibet. Sleigh bells, cowbells, handbells, doorbells. And at last, when the earthy riot was full, the bells went to church.

Every name in every tower rang, from the highest jingle to the lowest thrum, singing a cacophonous riot of midnight and Epiphany.

All the bells of England rang, all at once.

The air rang too, warm and thick as oiled bathwater, stealing Greg's breath and stifling all thought. They were both absolutely motionless while the oppressive wall of sound pressed through them and around them and out the other side.

And then, all at once, the day was over.

Silence fell once more, and Greg could finally open his eyes to see the ceiling.

He screamed.

Floating in the centre dome of the skylight, in their cupola of horrors, was the thready, vaporous apparition of an young woman, her hair billowing in a horrifying halo round her head. Her eyes shone like diamonds.

She threw out her arms wide, wider, like wings, and rushed toward them. Greg threw his hand up as if it could block her, and Mycroft did the same. In a burst of ozone the ghost hit their hands and puffed into nothing, the silence of the impact as loud as an explosion.

Muffled voices continued downstairs, but in their room Greg clutched Mycroft while his heartbeat fluttered through him. They both stared at the unholy skylight, panting, trying to come back down to earth from sex and vows and ghosts. Greg formed his fear into resolution and rolled out of bed.

"What are you doing?"

"A stakeout in the North Pole."

"What?"

"I'm not staying here tonight."

"I don't know that we have a choice."

"Bollocks to that. I'm sleeping in the fucking car."

* * *

Somehow, they brought everything down the back stairs without seeing anyone. Somehow, they stuffed all the blankets into the car, and fit themselves in there with them. Somehow, they got comfortable.

Somehow, in spite of everything—the gear shift, the steering wheel, the nightmare of their day—the two of them fell asleep.

* * *

The dawn broke across the windscreen in a golden streak which had melted the snow before Greg even opened his eyes. When he blinked away the grog, the vista in front of him was like going to church.

The storm had left the air bright and clear. The land sloped down before them to become the valley, spread endlessly to both sides in a mottled pattern of snowfield and shrub. Empty trees framed the expanse like a picture frame, while the dawn kaleidoscoped the land in pinks and purples and gold. It filtered through the windscreen to paint Mycroft's sleeping face. Greg took the moment to stare.

Beauty ahead of them, and beauty at his side.

Mycroft sniffed without opening his eyes. "Stop staring at me, please."

"Never." A cracked smile, and Mycroft unearthed his hand form the blankets and reached toward Greg, who took his hand. "How did you sleep?"

"I'm going to regret this tomorrow," Mycroft creaked, barely moving.

"At least we'll be alive tomorrow."

"Do you honestly believe otherwise?"

Greg was too comfortable to shrug. "Last night I had my doubts."

"And today?"

"We're alive today too."

Mycroft sniffed a laugh. "Because we slept out here."

"Yes indeed."

Greg indulged himself by pressing Mycroft's hand to his lips. He held it there, loving. It was warm, with thin skin slipping over bone, familiar and graceful and adored.

"We should go in." Mycroft was still speaking with his eyes closed, his head nestled into a cocoon of blankets and wadded pillow, so Greg didn't think he would mind if they moved a bit slowly.

"Should."

"My knee is going to hurt."

"My knees already hurt. But when I stand it'll be worse."

"Best postpone the inevitable."

"Until we have to pee."

Mycroft snorted, breathed, and then burst into a full-on chuckle. "Let's go in. My bladder is stronger than my will."

"And we still have an investigation to conduct."

Mycroft took his hand back, but brought Greg's with it. He pressed it to his own lips and breathed in, as if he was indulging in the same well of feeling that Greg had. "This was nice."

"In spite of the ghost?"

"In spite of the ghost."

* * *

Greg let Mycroft walk upstairs first, so he could take the opportunity to ogle his arse. He was the most clear-headed than he'd been since they arrived, and was in an oddly-good mood for having slept in a freezing car after a ghost watched them have sex from the ceiling of their room.

Halfway up the to the first floor, in the shadow cast by the upper landing, there was a sampler on the wall which he hadn't noticed before.

His blood ran cold.

Good mood: gone.

"Mycroft."

"Do I want to know?" Mycroft backtracked to see what Greg was looking at.

It was picked out in faded green thread, with awkward figures illustrating each item. Greg hadn't nearly enough experience with such things to tell whether it had been done by a child, or was simply old, but whatever the answer, the whole effect—words, dust, shadow, age—sent a shiver down his spine. 

_On the twelve days of Christmas_  
_my mother gave to me_  
_a partridge in a pear-tree._  
_turtle doves_  
_french hens_  
_colly birds_  
_gold rings_  
_geese a-laying_  
_swans a-swimming_  
_maids a-milking_  
_lords a-leaping_  
_ships a-sailing_  
_ladies spinning_  
_bells a-ringing_  
_These are the gifts my mother gave to me._

"I…" Greg gestured at it.

"Coincidence?"

"Are you kidding me?" Greg looked at Mycroft's face to check. "What kind of coincidence has an old pear break through the window and land on the carpet?"

"So you're saying…what?"

Greg pressed his mouth into a line. "Upstairs. Now."

* * *

When they were safely behind closed doors, Greg put his back to the wall. "Ladies spinning. Bells a-ringing."

"Hallucinations. I saw music boxes turn and portraits dance."

"That doesn't explain the milk. Or the ships."

"Or the rings."

"I thought the cook did the rings."

"I'm beginning to think she didn't."

Greg sighed. "So what are you saying, the ghost did it?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Gregory."

"The cook did the rings. The hens, doves, partridge, and goose were a surprise to Mrs Gaspard, too."

"Our hallucinations were no doubt subliminally influenced by passing that needlepoint many times yesterday."

"I guess."

"However, that doesn't explain the sudden angry swans."

"No rational theory explains everything."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "No rational theory we've yet formed."

"What rational theory explains an entire jug of milk spilling itself?"

"We don't have enough data for a rational theory."

"I only have an irrational one: the ghost of Lady Greyson thinks she's our mother."

"I don't understand."

"She didn't get a marriage. Maybe she wants to celebrate ours."

Mycroft blinked. "You consume very different media than I do."

"I don't know," Greg shrugged. "A ghost is the only way I can explain anything of this."

"Does that really seem like a logical explanation?"

"None of this is logical."

"Would you like to begin the investigation now?"

"I want to get the fuck out of here."

There was a fond, but amused, twist to Mycroft's mouth. "Will you be satisfied to leave a mystery unexplained?"

"Compared with the possibility of being haunted by a spectral mother? Yeah, I think I'll deal."

Mycroft kissed him softly. "Fine."

"You're not going to fight me on this?"

"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

"So you're saying I'm right."

"Ordinarily I will move heaven and earth to find the truth to a situation."

"But not this time, right?

Mycroft considered. Eventually, he made a huffing sound which would have been normal coming from Donovan, but from him only added to the surreality of the day. "Let's pack."

* * *

Greg hadn't taken much out of his bag, which made putting everything back a non-event. Mycroft, on the other hand, had hung every item up in the wardrobe. Greg sat on the end of the bed to watch him.

"I wish we could tell Sharon we're leaving early."

"I suppose we could phone her."

"There's still no service, Mycroft."

“I have an emergency satellite phone in the boot.”

“…And we haven’t used it yet?”

Mycroft stared blankly at him over a suit coat. “It’s for emergencies.”

Greg blinked. He pressed his lips together and didn't say the first thirty things that came to mind. He sighed. "I'm going to make our goodbyes. Will you check the bathroom for your stuff? Or mine? Or anything that wasn't there when we arrived?"

"We left nothing."

"The sitting room? Our old room?"

Mycroft stopped what he was doing and placed his hands on Greg's shoulders. "If it would make you feel better to check, I can check."

"I'm just antsy."

"Understandably." Mycroft placed his hand on the side of Greg's face, fond as a kiss, and as he slipped away Greg grabbed his hand for comfort and pressed his lips to his knuckles. They hit metal. And his stomach clenched.

Mycroft's golden ring reflected the blue of the skylight.

Outside of this ghost-ridden pile of a house, it was a beautiful day.

"Ah. What would you like to do with them?" Mycroft asked.

Greg let go of Mycroft's hand and spun his own ring. "Would you want to keep a gift from a ghost?"

"Or a patron."

"Whichever. Do you want to keep them?"

"Do you?"

They stared at each other. After a long moment, Greg let out a breath. "I don't really think they're necessary."

Slowly, steadily, Mycroft shook his head. "A ring won't make me more certain." 

With a huff as his whole chest tightened, Greg stood to press his lips to Mycroft's, hard and firm and decisive. "Me neither."

Mycroft smiled at him, as warm as an embrace. "Then we'll leave them here."

They smiled for a moment, connected, a united front. Then Greg looked round to figure out precisely where they needed to go. It took less than ten seconds to decide they belonged just under the portrait of the couple, nestled among candles and pinecones and ivy. 

"Fine." Mycroft put his hand on the small of his back: warm, comforting, safe. His. For the rest of their lives. "Now let me finish, please. I'd like to be gone."

"What the hell is a colly bird, anyway?"

"Colly means black."

"Ravens, then."

"I think we can safely assume it meant ravens."

"Of course it did."

Of course it did.

* * *

Downstairs, Greg interrupted a confab between Martha, Hannah, and Lydia which seemed intense and exciting. He heard the whispered words "infraspectral" and "out of body" before they noticed he was there.

"We're heading out," he said. "It was nice to meet you all." The room smelled oppressively of burned herbs and church incense.

"So soon?" said Martha. "But you'll miss the woods walk."

Lydia added, "And the ghost tour."

"I think we'll manage without."

"Are you feeling quite all right?" said Hannah.

"I'm fine. We're fine. We're just…keen to go. Daughters, you know how it is."

Hannah said firmly. "Children are a blessing and a boon."

He didn't know what to say to that. "Er. Yeah. Well, anyway, it was nice to meet you. Is Mrs Gaspard in the garden again?"

"Dining room," Martha said quickly. "Dining room."

"Fine." Greg studied them all. All three seemed off. "Are _you_ quite all right?"

"Absolutely." Martha brushed him away. "It was an enlightening evening. Lots to discover."

"Exhausted," said Lydia.

"Séances are fascinating events, don't you think?" Hannah said.

They were…anticipatory. Vibrating with the urge for him to be gone. And he was eager to wash his hands of the entire situation, so he decided not to care. "As I said, not really my thing. But it was nice to meet you."

He headed toward the dining room, and Hannah spoke to his back. "Be sure to thank the Lady for the thoughtful gifts she's granted."

Out of here. As soon as possible.

* * *

Mrs Gaspard was having her own intense private conversation with the cook in the far corner of the dining room when Greg found her. Her mouth snapped shut and she stood to attention when she saw him. "Mr Lestrade. What can I do for you?" The cook looked him up and down, as if trying to assess something, then turned on her heel and left.

"We're going to head out early, so please feel free to release our reservation. We want to get on the road."

"Oh. I'm so sorry. Is anything the trouble?"

Greg conjured Mycroft's voice, hoping that would help him through the conversation without screaming about ghosts and ravens. "Nothing at all. We only felt it would behoove us to take advantage of the break in the weather to travel to our next destination. I'm anxious to see my daughter."

"Of course, of course," she said, obviously unconvinced. "Well, I can't give you a refund, I hope you understand."

"I do. I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality, particularly the room upgrade."

'Oh, don't mention it." She flapped it away. "It was the least I could do for your inconvenience. Congratulations again on your recent marriage."

One last time, he let it go. "Thanks. Anyway." He didn't know what to do with his hands, so he held one out to shake. "Thanks."

"Our pleasure. Review us on Yelp, and come see us again soon."

Yelp was never going to hear the things he had to say.

* * *

"They're acting very weird," Greg told Mycroft as they headed out to the car.

"No doubt they were eager to discuss their rites last night without the judgement of outsiders."

"Rites?"

"The village-wide worship in the Grey Lady as their benefactor."

Greg stopped. Turned. Looked into Mycroft's face. "Wait, are you serious? Worship?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "It was in the song."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't know I needed to."

There was something on the bonnet of their car, but in the early morning winter glare it was hard to see. Once they crossed the car park, however, Greg wished he hadn't. They were the carcasses of two turtle doves, laid out across the snowy metal in a starfield of blood spots, like a demented pagan offering. They both stared.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Corpses are your milieu. I'll handle our bags."

" _On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me—_ " Greg sang, but Mycroft cut him off before he got any further.

"Never let me hear that song again."

* * *

The tyres skidded on the wet snow, but finally Greg completed his turn and headed them back the way they came.

And there, stark against the age-dark limbs of a wizened pear tree, were two grey ravens. Silent, still, easily mistaken for statues if not for the wind ruffling their wings.

As they drove by, Greg was certain one of them blinked. It had a bright blue eye.

Greg put the gas down. He never wanted to see this place again as long as he lived.

* * *

The next weekend, over room service at a rather nice hotel in Edinburgh, Mycroft took away Greg's toast and replaced it with the newspaper.

"I can't eat this," Greg said.

"Below the fold. On the right."

Greg grumbled over the rim of his mug and searched for the article in question. When he found it, he forgot about breakfast.

_HALLUCINOGENS AT HAUNTED HOUSE_ , it read.

_After an anonymous tip, police have begun investigating Mulberry Manor for drug trafficking. Illegal plants, many of them poisonous in nature, were found on the premises, as well as a laboratory with incriminating evidence. Investigators have been unwilling to divulge the extent to which any of the plants were used in further crimes, but sources say charges are imminent._

Greg read it twice, derided it for poor writing, and peered at Mycroft, who had been watching him throughout the entire thing. "We did see this coming."

"We shouldn't have left the investigation to your colleagues."

"They're good cops, Mycroft."

"We should have conducted the search ourselves."

"Because you would have found all the answers, or because then we'd have all the answers?"

"I don't see a difference between the two."

"Gaspard isn't exactly a kingpin, love. It was illegal, sure, but there wasn't much to find."

"Because I wasn't there."

"If their plan was to keep us away from their stash, they succeeded."

"It would take me two sober minutes to discover the rest of the explanation."

"Do you want to dig back in?"

"There remain any number of features of our stay which cannot be explained by hallucinogenic tea."

"Mycroft. Would you like to go back?"

It was a question they'd asked themselves repeatedly over the last week, but Mycroft appeared to think it over yet again. Finally, he relented. "I remain content to let this one alone."

"You don't want to chance that a ghost will want to reenact Jingle Bells?"

"I don't think I could drive a sleigh, could you?"

Greg wondered whether Mycroft was really as blithe about ghosts as he pretended to be. But it cost nothing to let it go, and in return Mycroft would save face. He sipped his cooling coffee. "I've played this game before. There's going to be a logical explanation, and it's going to be obvious once you tell me, and then I'm going to feel like an idiot. I don't really want to drive all the way back there for that."

"Then we let it go. And we won't risk your embarrassment, or Marley's ghost."

They sat in silent understanding. "Well," Greg snorted. "This has been a comforting conversation."

"At least the rest of this trip has been uneventful."

"Until lunchtime."

"It'll be fine. I suspect the two of them are just as wary of us as we are of them."

"Easy for you to say. It's not _your_ ex's new boyfriend."

"My ex has a wife, actually."

It broke the ramp-up of Greg's nerves. Chuckling, he reached across the table to grab Mycroft's hand, the only part of him that he could kiss at that distance. "Fine. I'll stop."

"It's only lunch. And Sharon will break the ice. You know she will."

"I know. I know. I just wish this wasn't all so complicated."

"It's not complicated at all. We have a meal with them. They have a meal with us. Obligations met, we all go back to pretending we're not in the same city, and we'll go shopping with Sharon afterward as a palate cleanser."

"That's another trial you've not yet experienced."

"We'll make it through. We just weathered a test for the ages, didn't we?"

"Oh,you mean how we were poisoned at a haunted B&B, and decided we didn't ever need to get married after a ghost watched us have sex?"

This time, Mycroft kissed Greg's knuckles. "Yes. We've been through worse. The spectre of an uncomfortable lunch doesn't worry me at all."

"We've been tried, tested, and been proved strong?"

"The Lady provides."

"The Lady provides."

**Author's Note:**

> If you've enjoyed this story, and want to help boost its signal to catch all those who have boarded the Mystrade ship over the last few years, the Tumblr announcement post is here:
> 
> http://mydwynter.tumblr.com/post/168616806507/epiphany-a-mystrade-holiday-ghost-story
> 
> Whether Tumblr, Twitter, Slack, or something else, any way you can help me spread the gift of Spooky Holiday Mystrade is appreciated. 


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